Catch Me As I Fall
by silvershadowrebel
Summary: His family is gone. The circus thinks he's dead. The army thinks he's dead. To Clint himself, he should be dead. But for some reason, someone named Phil Coulson... Just. Won't. Give. Up. It took a international manhunt and a persistent handler for Clint Barton, the assassin known as Hawkeye, to realize that there are reasons for living. Hawkeye origin story. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I HUGELY admire Aggie2011**'s **Vantage Point Universe, so I decided to begin my own Clint-centric universe: the Record Keeper Universe. It mainly focuses on the relationship that develops between Clint and Coulson, starting with Clint's recruitment to SHIELD.  
And I know I shouldn't be writing ANOTHER story, but this has been sitting around on my USB for ages.  
Disclaimer: The Avengers do not belong to me.**

Chapter One: Catch Me As I Fall

_Catch me as I fall_

_Say you're here and it's all over now_

_Speaking to the atmosphere_

_No one's here and I fall into myself_

Clint Barton was not an easy person to fool. Those who had ever doubted that fact learned the hard way not to mess with the cutthroat assassin. So the eighteen-year-old couldn't figure out for the life of him _why_ this man was tailing him, unless he _wanted _an arrow in his eyeball.

People and their motives would always confuse Clint.

He had woken up relatively happy that morning; it was New Year's Eve, and he was going to finish his contract that night, and then he could get the _hell_ out of Switzerland. Not that he didn't like Switzerland, of course. But science conferences and stalkers really put a damper on Clint's mood.

The well-trained assassin moved closer to the center of the crowd crossing the street. Clint hated crowds, but the last way to lose a tail was to duck into a deserted alleyway. He then joined a group of college-aged kids walking into a shopping center. American students on a trip, he guessed. They entered a small coffee shop. Clint followed.

The coffee shop was fairly crowded- a sign that their food was good. Christmas lights outlined the menus on the wall, and the employees wore elf hats and bells. German Christmas music poured through the speakers. There was a fake fireplace near the back. Clint ordered a cup of regular coffee, cream and sugar, please. The barista blushed slightly when he thanked her and flashed one of his signature smiles. She gave him a little extra sugar.

Clint grabbed the mug, placed a tip in the jar, and made his way to a two-person table next to the fireplace and sat down. From this point, he could watch everything and everyone, but few would notice him. His favorite situation.

From across the room, the barista caught his eye. He smiled again, and she smiled back, slightly bashfully. She was pretty. She had an oval face and full cheeks. Her chocolate brown hair fell in loose waves. And the smile was just the cherry on top. For a minute, Clint felt pang of loneliness. Having a solo career wasn't always fun.

Clint was pulled out of his thoughts when he caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye. Damn his tail was good. The older man took no notice of the teen; instead, he he stood in line at the counter, waiting to order something. Clint nursed his cup of coffee as he observed the man with is blue-gray eyes.

The man wasn't exceptionally tall- but that didn't mean anything. Clint wasn't exactly the tallest person in the world either. He had short brown hair and rather prominent ears. The was a slight bump on the man's right side, betraying to Clint that the man had a gun.

Clint sipped his drink, eyes following the man as he received his drink and sat down at an open table next to the door. Shit.

They stayed like that for a while, Clint observing, the man acting like he had no idea Clint was watching him. Clint finished his coffee and stared longingly at the empty mug. It was good coffee. He decided to get another cup.

The barista was still there when he ordered a cup-to-go. He gave her a wink before leaving the coffee shop, not paying his stalker a second glance.

Clint went through a series of intricate paths to get back to his safe house. By the time he got there (three hours, 18 minutes, and 32 seconds), he was fairly confident that he had lost his tail. For the time being. He spent the rest of the afternoon prepping for his kill. It was going to have to be up close and personal tonight, so he would sadly have to leave his bow in the trunk of his car. Instead, he cleaned out his Glock 26, refilling the bullets, and attached a silencer to it. Then Clint made sure his knives were sharp.

Finally, at five, he slipped into the suit that he hated. He rarely wore it, since most of his work was done from a distance, but from the few times he _did_ wear it, it tended to end up as an inconvenience. He slipped one knife into its sheath underneath his left arm, another tucked neatly into his sock, and slipped the gun into the custom-made pocket on the inside of his jacket. He glanced in the mirror, grabbed his sunglasses, and left the apartment room after making sure that there had been no traces of him being there. He wasn't coming back tonight.

Clint jumped into his car after checking that his bow and arrows were stored safely in the back, underneath a blanket, and drove over to the skyscraper in which the science convention was taking place. He parked a couple of streets away, and walked around to the back of the building. He glanced at the "secured" door for a minute before smirking. It was a simple four-digit code. Probably easy enough to crack, but he wasn't taking any chances. Quietly and discreetly, he slipped out the knife under his arm, and pried the keypad off of the device. A few wires cut later, and the door clicked open. He replaced the keypad and slipped inside.

The party took up several floors of the building, with more presentations occurring above that. Clint grabbed a directory and a champagne from the passing waiter and pressed into the crowd. Sustaining awareness about the crowd surrounding him, he consulted the directory. Stark would be presenting some amazing piece of technology on the fourth floor at 9:00. That gave Clint plenty of time to check all of his exits and situations. Sipping his champagne, Clint wandered around for a couple of hours, checking out a couple of presentations with obvious disinterest. All the while, he kept a distant eye on his target.

The job was done quickly, and with ease. The man had suspected nothing, nor did the drunk people surrounding him. A shot to the head, and Clint was out of the building and shrugging off his suit jacket.

Clint pulled out his cell phone and called Oveur Paxting, the man paying him to take out his target.

"_Paxting,_" the voice answered.

"It's done," Clint said simply.

"_You're positive?_"

"I _never_ miss," Clint's voice became less like rock and more like steel. "I expect the money by noon tomorrow."

"_It'll be there_," Paxting promised. Clint pressed the end button on his phone, ending the call. Next on his list: get the hell out of Switzerland and away from his mysterious stalker.

Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division watched from a parked car as Barton walked out the front door of the science conference with not a care in the world. He was slightly surprised that the young man- teenager, really- hadn't noticed him, as he had for the past week. Or maybe he did, and he was just beyond caring.

Phil watched Barton call someone while he walked down the street, toward where he'd parked his car. Phil brought the radio up to his lips.

"I've got sight on target," he said. "He's moving south."

The reply came, slightly garbled. "Affirmative. Should we move out?"

"Negative, Agent Sitwell," Coulson replied. "Let's see where he goes next."

Barton continued walking for several blocks. In addition to the jacket, he ripped of the tie and slipped out of the leather shoes. Coulson listened to the sporadic reports from the other agents as they trailed Barton to a small rental car on a deserted street.

"He's on the move," one of the agents reported.

"Check. I've got it from here. Where is he headed?" Coulson replied.

"The airport, sir."

"Okay. I'll call when I get to wherever we're going." Coulson started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. He dialed a number on his cell phone as he cruised down the street.

_Ring._

_Ring._

"_Hello_?"

"Hey, James, it's Phil."

"_Phil_!" James exclaimed. James had once been a SHIELD agent stationed in Switzerland, before suffering the loss of a leg in a field operation gone wrong. He had retired and found a much safer job working as the head of security at the Geneva Cointrin International Airport. He didn't associate himself much with secret agents any more, but Phil was an old friend and James was willing to do him a favor once in a while. "_How are things across the pond_?"

"As crazy as usual," Phil replied. "Nothing is ever simple with democracies."

"_I hear you_," James agreed. "_Now, there must be a reason you called, because I highly doubt you wanted to catch up and gossip like old ladies."_

Phil took the on-ramp onto the highway and merged into the inside lane. "Listen, I need a favor of you."

"_Anytime, anytime,_" James said. "_Just as long as it doesn't involve risking my life,_" he joked.

Phil smiled slightly. "Are you working tonight?"

"_Yeah, I'm on break right now. Why?_"

"I'm following a person and he's headed to the airport right now. I'm not sure where he's going; we've been tracking him for about a week and he hasn't purchased any tickets, as far as we know. He's more of a spur-of-the-moment type, he probably wouldn't have purchased one earlier."

"_What do you want me to do? Stop him from buying a ticket?_"

"No, I want your men on the lookout for him. It'll be like looking for a needle in an airport-sized haystack, I know, but this is slightly important. If you do find him, tell me what plane he takes. But let him go- in fact, let him get through security with as little problems as possible."

"_Alright, who is this mysterious person, and what does he look like?_"

"His name is Clint Barton, but he probably won't use that name when he purchases a ticket. He's on the shorter side, but well built. Sandy colored hair, blue/gray eyes, very serious looking. He was wearing a suit before, but he probably changed into something more inconspicuous- probably jeans and a sweatshirt."

"_Phil, is this another one of your recruiting sprees? If I recall correctly, they tend to be a little... outlandish_."

Coulson flipped on the blinker on the car to merge onto the offramp. "I'm not sure what it is, James. It would be great if we could recruit him. He'd be a really valuable asset, but he's a little unpredictable. And volatile. I have no idea what his reaction will be."

"_I'll give it a shot, Phil, but I can't promise anything."_

"Thanks, James," Phil replied. "This means a lot. Just tell your men to be careful, okay? He knows I've been following him for a while. He's probably expecting trouble."

"_Will do. Just stay safe, okay, Phil_?"

Phil smirked. "I'll try." He ended the call and focused on navigating his way through the busy airport.

-.-.-.-

Clint sauntered up to the security check in the airport. He wasn't positive yet on how he was going to get his multiple weapons onto the plane, but he figured he would just play it by ear. It wasn't like he was going to hijack the plane, or anything. He came to a stop behind a man who was significantly taller than Clint.

Clint quietly slipped a bullet casing into the outer pocket of the man's carry on. The casing of the bullet that was currently residing in a certain man's head. It wasn't long before security guards were flocking over to the station. The man looked completely befuddled, hands in the air, asking what was happening. In all of the commotion, Clint took his bag and slipped between the security detectors. He knew he would show up on the cameras, but he figured that he would at least be in the air before anyone noticed that he had never gone through security.

Clint spent the next twenty minutes wandering around, observing. At one point, he pick pocketed a man who was a similar height and had a similar hair color to Clint. He had seen the white corner of a ticket peeking out of the man's sport jacket.

Clint studied the ticket and went to the designated gate. The flight was set to leave for New York in a mere fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to get away. But also plenty of time for Clint's stalker to track him down. He sat down in a chair that faced away from the large window. Shoving earbuds into his ears, he pretended to turn on music and kept a sharp eye out for any suspicious looking people.

Suspicious became evident when the third security guard walked past his gate and _conveniently_ glanced in Clint's direction before casually conveying something over the walkie talkie.

He knew he was caught.

By why wasn't anyone _stopping_ him?

The minutes ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace. If it weren't for his inbred ability to stay still for up to 23 hours at a time (he had tried it once, and it was a highly unpleasant experience), Clint was sure that his leg would be twitching, he would have gotten up multiple times, and he would have probably been demoted to watching the TV (reading the reporter's lips, of course). By the time the ramp door opened, Clint had counted another four security guards who seemed to find a peculiar interest in the blond haired man sitting in Gate 12. He wasted no time in handing the attendant his ticket and strutting purposefully down the loading ramp.

He settled into his aisle seat in the economy seating and shoved his bag underneath the seat. An elderly woman sat in the window seat, but the one between them remained empty.

Five minutes later, people had started wondering why they weren't taking off. Their questions were answered when a flight attendant maneuvered her way to the row Clint and the elderly woman were sitting in.

"Excuse me," she smiled sweetly. "I was wondering if you have the right ticket. There is a man at the gate who insists that he had a ticket for this plane and that he was supposed to sit here."

Clint made a show of digging his ticket out of his jeans pocket. "Yes, I think so," he said politely. It says 23C. I am in 23C, right?" Just as long as she didn't check the name on the ticket, he was fine.

"May I check the name, please?" She held out a manicured hand.

Clint shrugged. "Sure. I mean, I am Frederick Scott. I'm not sure why you would need to check that." He was stalling. "But I suppose if you really wanted to, I am free tonight," he smirked.

The attendant drew back indignantly. "I highly doubt that was necessary," she said in a clipped tone.

"Perhaps not," he smiled. He noticed another attendant walking towards them. "But it was worth a try, right?"

The other attendant tapped the first one on the shoulder. "It's been sorted out. The Mr. Scott was supposed to be on a different flight."

"But-" the first one trailed off. She took another glance at Clint. "Alright." The two walked back up to the cockpit.

There was a moment of silence before the elderly woman spoke. She was looking out the window at the moving ground below them. "I would just like you to know that I heard nothing of that conversation. My hearing aides seem to have malfunctioned. I don't know why you are here, but if you try to deceive anyone else again, I will not hesitate in reporting you." Clint nodded once, but the woman continued. "It is possible that you are Frederick Scott. It is also possible that you needed to get to New York for some reason. I find both those options highly improbable, though."

"Thanks," Clint muttered, not sure if the woman was helping him or threatening him.

-.-.-.-

Clint stepped out of the plane and into the airport. As he scanned his surroundings, he caught a familiar flash of brown. Clint quietly swore under his breath. Clint didn't even ponder the fact that the stalker had somehow gotten to New York before Clint. The two men locked eyes for a split second before Clint was off.

**So… a little into to the story. Setting the scene and all that fun stuff. **

**Please review and I MIGHT update before six months pass lol **

**-Silver out.**

**P.S. the song lyrics at the beginning of the chapter are taken from "Whisper" by Evanescence. I do not own them.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to all the support for the first chapter of this!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers.**

Chapter 2: Extreme Ways

_Extreme ways are back again_

_Extreme places I didn't know_

_I broke everything new again_

_Everything that I'd owned_

Clint didn't even bother to look cool, calm, or collected. He just got the heck out of dodge. The first right he took led down a smaller, restaurant filled hallway. He didn't hear any rapid footsteps behind him, but that didn't mean anything.

Clint received a few strange looks as he darted between weary travelers, but in comparison to the rest of the people, it must have been relatively normal to see people sprinting through airports. Or maybe it was just New York. Clint nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to stop and take a sharp turn down a hallway. At the end of the hallway was a doorway that read _Private Offices_. Clint sent a quick prayer and hoped that the door was unlocked.

His wishful thinking was to no avail. Anyone who wished to enter Private Offices was required to swipe their ID in front of a detector. Clint swore and turned back to the main hallway, making sure to round the turn that time. Just as he was turning, Clint noticed a man trotting through the crowd, looking around. Clint would bet his savings that the man was either working for Clint's stalker or in the same business. And he was almost positive that the two had help.

Unsure of where to go next, Clint ducked into the men's bathroom before he realized that he'd cornered himself. He went into a stall and locked the door. Clint glanced up at the ceiling. It was a drop ceiling, but it was maybe twelve feet in the air. He could probably get into the ceiling by balancing on the top of the wall of the stall and taking a leap of faith, but someone was bound to notice.

There was the sound of a multitude of feet, multiplied by the narrow walls leading into the bathroom. Not long after, a voice spoke.

"Can everyone please leave the bathroom. There is no need to panic. Please walk calmly out of the bathroom. There is one a little farther down the hallway if you need." The voice was clipped and professional.

There were murmurs of confusion, but one by one, the bathroom slowly emptied. Clint figured that they had to check each person to make sure that Clint wasn't trying to escape. That left Clint a very small window of small chaos to make his escape.

Clint backed up to the door and tried to get as much momentum as possible as he stepped on the toilet seat and launched himself at the wall on his left, twisting in midair to cling to the top with both hands. He then pushed off the wall with his feet and swung himself up so he was crouching on the wall.

There was a shout from below.

Clint turned his head. The two men that had been following him were staring back, accompanied by four airport security guards who were preparing to draw their weapons. They blocked the entrance to the bathroom. That all happened in less than two seconds. Clint looked back up at the ceiling, calculated the distance and where he would have to place his hands, and vaulted off the wall without a second thought.

Hitting a drop ceiling while traveling at a high velocity hurt Clint's hands more than he expected. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on one of the support beams just as one of the guards fired a warning shot. Clint paused momentarily, hanging from a twelve foot high ceiling by only his fingertips, to glance at the group.

"Clint Barton," the stalker called out. He was the one with the professional voice. "Please come down from the ceiling. My name is Phil Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. We would like to talk to you. However, if you do not, we may be forced to take any measures to ensure the security of those in the airport."

Clint looked down. He was hanging right above a toilet. He shook his head, and swung his legs up, kicking the section of ceiling away and pulling himself into the ceiling. A couple shots rang out at the same time.

The ceiling would not support his weight, Clint knew that. So before he fell through, he reached up and grabbed one of the metal beams above him, shifting mos of his weight onto that beam. Thankfully, the support beam he was on and the one he was holding onto ran parallel to each other. He started the process of heading down the beams, careful not to put more than a small amount of weight on the drop ceiling.

The space between floors was not very glamorous. There were no lights, but electrical wires were like spaghetti below him. Above him, pipelines and other things he couldn't name made movement very difficult. Not to mention the fact that the space was only about two feet high. Clint quickly learned that hanging like a sloth simplified things a bit.

Once he deemed that he was far enough away from where he made his escape, Clint lifted a section of the ceiling and peeked. He was above a small office. Four or five tall filing cabinets covered one wall and right below him was a cluttered desk. There was nobody in the room.

Repeating the process he had done to get into the ceiling, Clint slowly lowered himself down until he was hanging by his fingertips. Then he dropped lightly onto the ground, bending his knees to absorb the force and lessen the sound.

Clint walked casually out the door like he hadn't just broken into the office. Briefly checking the signs, he turned to the right and walked straight out the of airport. He had no idea what happened to his bag of weapons—he had ditched it as soon as he had started running—but it was too dangerous to go back into the airport. He started walking in the direction of the city.

-.-.-.-

Clint thumbed through the phone book. He had been searching for someone named Phil Coulson for a while now, but it looked like Phil Coulson didn't live in New York. He was American, Clint could tell that much, but he could live in Cleveland for all Clint knew. The company Coulson claimed to work for didn't seem to exist, either. So this was all either a large hoax, or the agency was very secretive. In either case, Clint didn't want to find out.

Clint sighed and closed the large yellow book. He stepped out of the phone booth and returned to the bus stop. It was late at night, but everyone was still awake, it being New Year's and all. Clint was feeling a large sense of deja vu, having just celebrated the New Year a few hours ago in Switzerland.

Clint had found a small street vendor selling New Year apparel. He had quickly found a shirt, and hat, and picked up a jacket and a new pair of jeans in a small retail store. His sweatshirt and old pair of jeans were stored safely in his bag until he could find a safe was to dispose of them.

An hour later found Clint riding the bus south through New Jersey. His plan was to take public transport down to BWI Airport in Maryland, then take a flight down to South America. How he was going to get a flight to South America hadn't been planned out yet, but Clint would have to think of something.

Nick Fury didn't glance up from his desk as the person entered the office.

"You had better be here to tell me that you have Hawkeye in custody."

Agent Coulson only shifted slightly. "Not exactly."

Fury looked up. "Agent Coulson, I gave you free reign on this project. You told me you would e able to bring him in. And now you're telling me that you can't?"

"No, sir," Coulson replied. "It's not that we can't bring him in. It's that he's proving to be more difficult than we expected."

"Then why are you here? Shouldn't you be in Switzerland, chasing this _child_ down?"

"Clinton Barton left Switzerland hours ago. We have reason to believe that he is heading south. Our sources reported seeing someone that looked like him in a clothing store in New York a while ago."

"Do you mean to tell me that he was able to take a plane across the ocean without my agents noticing, and then to enter out country and get past security?"

"Actually, sir, I told the agents on the case to let him get onto the plane. We have stronger resources in America than we do internationally. It would be easier to catch him over here."

Fury glared at the younger agent. "And did you tell them to let him loose once he was inside the country, too?"

At this, Coulson hesitated. "No, sir, he managed to escape through the bathroom ceiling."

"He wants to recruit a monkey," Fury muttered. "This assassin is nineteen years old."

"Eighteen," Coulson corrected.

Fury simply glared at the man. "I don't care what you have to do. He shouldn't be able to outsmart one of my best agents and anither five agents who are twice his age! Get to it before he manages to skips the country again!"

"Yes, sir." Coulson could tell the conversation was over and left the office. He looked at the five men on his team who had been sitting outside the office, nervously awaiting Fury's wrath.

"Barton was last seen in New York two and a half hours ago. He could be anywhere by now. I want to find him. Look for plane tickets in nearby airports that were purchased recently. If you don't find any, expand your search to include the entire country. Contact our security checkpoints. Look up train, bus, subway, and boat tickets. We need to find this man!" Four of the five men sprang up to get to their jobs. The last one stood up slowly.

"How do you know you are going to find him?" Agent Sitwell asked.

"I have faith."

"But even if we do find him, he's already made it clear that he'll be dead before we get him."

Coulson gave his friend a side glance. "That's why I'm going to treat him like an assassin."

**So this was a short chapter, but there was definitely some action. **

**And look, I updated before two months! I figured I'd get this out to you rather than make you wait for a longer chapter. **

**Have a fabulous weekend everybody!**

**-Silver out.**

**PS the song used is this chapter is "Extreme Ways" by Moby. I do not own it.**


	3. Chapter 3

**How many people saw Captain America 2? Pretty explosive, if I do say so myself.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers.**

Chapter Three

_This truth drives me into madness_

_I know I can stop the pain_

_If I will it all away_

-Whisper

Clint got off the bus at the airport. He had switched buses three times since he had left New York, in hopes that it would throw his stalkers off the scent.

Clint checked both of his bags before walking into the airport. His baseball cap was pulled down low over his brow and he had put his sweatshirt on underneath the jacket and pulled up the hood over the hat, officially making him unrecognizable from a distance and like your average college-age student.

It was early in the morning, and most of the people there were either employees or businessmen who traveled regularly. A few tired-looking families waited at a baggage claim, presumably waiting for a loved one to arrive.

Clint restrained a yawn. He wasn't sure the last time he had slept. He hadn't let his guard down on the plane ride or the bus ride out of fear that he was being chased, and the night before that he had gotten only a couple of hours of sleep. It wasn't the longest he had ever gone without sleep, but the lack of rest was wearing down on his energy levels. Clint usually saved the Owl Nights (as he called them) for stakeouts where he was in the same position for hours, not running around a country trying to stay alive. It wasn't often that he was the hunted, but Clint had decided that he most definitely preferred being the hunter.

At least hunters got paid.

Clint meandered down a deserted hallway, not really heading anywhere in particular. He stopped in the bathroom, and one look in the mirror revealed a tired face and bloodshot eyes, accompanied by tousled hair and a cobweb or two mixed in from his adventures in the ceiling of the last airport. Clint threw some water onto his face, waking him up. Then he got an idea.

Clint quickly left the bathroom and stalked down the hallway, back to where the newsstands and bookstores were situated. There were a few more people in the airport, heading toward their flights. Clint slipped into a promising-looking newsstand that seemed to supply more than just the news.

On his way to the magazines, Clint passed a rack of makeup. Unnoticed by anybody else, he slipped a few select things into his bag as he walked past. Clint pretended to look for an interesting magazine while he surveyed the store. He grabbed a random magazine, and picked up a black Sharpie beofre making his way over to the music section. He snatched up a pair of headphones and headed to the checkout.

There was nobody waiting in line, so Clint quickly paid for the Sharpie, magazine, and headphones. He then went to a different area of the airport and found an empty bathroom.

Clint pulled down the baby changing station, covered it in paper towels, and dumped out everything he had just purchased/stolen.

The circus had taught Clint a lot of things. It taught him how to lie, steal, cheat, walk on wires, and to not trust your own family. It also taught him how to apply makeup.

With a steady hand, Clint traced his eyes with thick black eyeliner, smudging it a little, just as he had watched the girls in the circus do before performances.

Knowing he had a limited amount of time, Clint skipped the alcohol wipes and just applied the Sharpie directly onto his forearm. With a few lines here and some shading there, a black rose slowly come to life on his skin. He let it dry and then drew a small swirly design on his neck, close to the collarbone.

The last change he made to his appearance was swiping a thin coat of black nail polish onto his finger nails, letting it dry for ten minutes before moving on. He took the headphones out of the packaging and slipped them on his head, shoving the cord into his jacket. They weren't connected to anything but to the average person, it appeared that he was listening to music, lost in his own world. Having his ears covered wasn't exactly reassuring to Clint, but he told himself that if necessary, he could read lips. Yet another thing that the circus taught him.

Clint removed any evidence of his presence and walked out of the bathroom a new person. People gave him strange looks, some of disgust, almost like they knew of the sins he had committed. Although he had to admit that he kind of enjoyed the five-foot radius people gave him. He found an information desk and—very politely—asked the lady when the next flight to Mexico was. She told him that it was in four hours and thirty-eight minutes, and that he needed to check in two hours early if it was an international flight, did he have a ticket?

Ten minutes later, Clint had a ticket to Oaxaca and directions to his terminal. He sat down at his gate and prepared to wait for the next four hours.

They were getting better. Clint had to give them that. They had managed to find him after an hour.

They came in the form of three airport security guards. Or, three agents in security guard clothing. They surrounded Clint's seat, looking imposing, oblivious to the curious looks of other travelers.

"Sir, we are going to have to ask you to come with us."

Clint looked up from his magazine and pulled off his headphones. "Sorry?"

"You need to come with us."

Clint pretended to look confused. "Is there a problem?"

"Not if you come with us," the second guard said.

"Oh, sure." Clint made a show of putting his things away and picking up his bags. He started walking and was immediately flanked by the three guards. Clint noticed that their hands seemed to conveniently stray to their gun holsters.

"So what's your excuse for chasing me this time?" he asked conversationally when they were halfway down the terminal. "I know ceilings aren't really your typical exit but you know what they say about desperate times." His cover was blown anyway, s Clint figured he could afford to try to get some information out of these creepers.

None of the guards said anything. Different moves ran through Clint's mind as he began to visualize an escape plan, but before he could actually _act _on any of them, he felt a sharp sting in his forearm. Almost immediately, Clint began to lose consciousness.

In a light attempt to fight, Clint kicked the legs out from under the guard to his right and slammed his head back into the face of the man to his left. The third guard caught him under his arms as he stumbled.

"Just take it easy," was the last thing Clint heard before the world fell away.

Clint woke up to a nondescript room. He was handcuffed to a metal chair and in front of him was a metal table. A security camera was situated in a high corner of the room. It looked like your typical interrogation room.

It was a depressing thought that a teenager had been in enough interrogation rooms to be able to recognize one.

The door opened to reveal a man—none other than Phil Coulson. He was carrying a few files that he slapped onto the table as he took a seat on the opposite end of the table. He fixed Clint with a steady stare.

"You look different," he said calmly, referring to Clint's patchy disguise. Clint remained silent.

And so the waiting game began.

He hadn't spoken in two hours. In fact, Phil Coulson wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Barton speak. But aside from that, Barton seemed to be content with simply glaring. What had started out as a simple observation of the man had become a staring match of wills.

Finally, Coulson decided to break the silence.

"You're a very interesting man, Hawkeye," he said, leaning back into his chair. Barton simply glared at him. "A very accomplished assassin, I understand." He opened one of the files in front of him. "Twenty-six kills in the last four months. That's quite a number." Phil had no doubt that the number was actually higher. The Strategic Homeland Division just couldn't prove it.

For once, Phil actually got a reaction. Barton raised an eyebrow. "Your point?" he asked dully.

Considering this a huge amount of progress, Phil pushed forward. "The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division is in need of your skills. This man, Carlos Hidalgo, has been on our watch list for over a year."

"What do you want me to do, ask him out on a date?" Barton sneered.

Coulson paused for a minute to give the teenager a dry look, then continued. "He's been smuggling drugs into the U.S. For years. We need him gone. I trust you understand what I mean."

Barton snorted. "I find it hard to believe that you've been chasing me for weeks to get this job done. You certainly have the resources to do it yourself."

"We do," Coulson conceded, "but as a government agency we need to have physical proof of his crimes. Unfortunately, our resources aren't _that _good. But if he were to accidentally, I don't know, get shot in the head, well, that's a different matter." He slid the folder across the table. "That includes all that we know about Hidalgo, where he is, what type of security he had, etc."

Barton didn't make a move to grab the folder. Instead, he looked evenly at Coulson. "I think you're forgetting something."

"Payment," Coulson replied instantly. "Name your price."

Barton didn't answer immediately. He opened the folder and scanned through the information, mentally calculating costs, potential obstacles, and the dangerous nature of the mission. Barton dropped the folder on the table and leaned back. "Forty,"

There was a slight staring contest following the number. "Very well," Coulson said in a clipped tone. "Half before, half after. Twenty thousand will be deposited in your account before tomorrow. Twenty thousand after you complete the job."

"Any time restraints?"

"As soon as possible, just as long as you do the job well and you don't get caught."

"It'll be done." Barton stood up and left the room. He grabbed his two bags that had been left by the door, untouched. His mind was reeling, but not about the job. About the fact that Coulson had seemed completely unperturbed that Barton had unlocked the handcuffs in two minutes flat.

The first thing Clint did when he found a suitable motel was get rid of the makeup and tattoos. He then went through his bag of weapons. Sure enough, they were all untouched, just as Clint had suspected. In a way, that was more worrying than the thought of having someone else touch his stuff.

Then he promptly fell asleep.

Clint estimated that he got about two solid hours of sleep before the nightmares started. Two hours of pure bliss before the screaming started.

It was the screaming that scared Clint the most. Yes, the nightmares were disturbing, but the screaming controlled him. Sometimes the victims in his dreams were screaming. Sometimes he'd wake up to the sound of his own voice and his body covered in a sheen of sweat. Sometimes he heard it and knew he was the one screaming, but when he woke up there was no sound. He would wake up with his mouth open, hand clutching at the pain in his chest, body arched in the way that only those in pain can find comforting. His body wanted to scream, _needed _to cry out for salvation, but his voice just wouldn't work.

But after he woke up, it didn't stop. The sounds of pain lingered in his head, resonating echoes that reached into the darkest corners of his mind. They were as difficult to deal with as a migraine, and lasted anywhere from minutes to hours.

Once, Clint had given in. He had locked the doors to his room, closed the curtains, and turned off the lights. Then he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds.

Fifty-two minutes later had found him crouching in the corner of his room, hands gripping his hair as if to ground himself. He had been dimly aware of a dull pounding in his head. A quick glance in the mirror revealed various scratches, some of which had already scabbed over. He had had no idea how they'd happened.

After that incident, Clint made sure to not let his personal demons control him. He rarely slept while on the job. He didn't stay in the same place for so long (though that was also for safety purposes). He made sure that any weapons, save for his gun, were locked in a different room before he went to bed. And when the inevitable happened, he learned to ignore the inferno inside his head. He wore sunglasses in public to hide the occasional squeezes of pain and dark circles under his eyes.

Although he had to admit, wearing shades made him feel pretty cool.

Fortunately, the torture didn't last long this time. It started with an aerial view of a mountainous range.

_People were talking behind him, but Clint couldn't figure out what they were saying. He wanted to turn around and identify the speakers, but something stopped him. They got closer to the mountains._

_The voices got louder and more distressed, but Clint still couldn't decipher what they were saying. He knew they were speaking English, but it was like his mind just wouldn't process anything._

"_BARTON!" _

_THAT he could decipher. Then he realized what was happening. His hands were suddenly on the airplane controls, as the mountain loomed dangerously in front of them._

"_Relax," he heard himself saying. "You don't trust me?"_

_Clint knew they were headed straight for the mountain, but he couldn't do anything. There were a few shouts from his teammates, and then the world exploded. The plane crashed into the hard mountain rock, instantly crumpling. The people in the plane screamed in pain and agony as their bodies broke. For some reason, fire came out of nowhere, adding to the pain. Clint felt himself falling down the side of the mountain, but before he made impact on the hard ground, he woke up to his own screams._

Clint gasped for breath. His hands clutched at the sheets, as if they were the controllers of the airplane he had just crashed. As if he could change the fate of his dead comrades.

But no, that was wrong, Clint thought. That wasn't how they died. They didn't crash into a mountain. Otherwise Clint wouldn't be having these thoughts. There had been an explosion. And there were no screams. It was an instant death for those who had had the privilege to die. For those who hadn't, it was a personal hell filled with third degree burns, scorching heat, and exhaustion. It still didn't change the fact that it was Clint's fault five honorable soldiers died.

Clint ignored the screams in his head and rolled out of bed. He stumbled to the bathroom and stripped off his dirty and sweaty clothes.

Clint stepped into the shower and turned the water on. He cursed and danced a few steps as the shower head shot out icy cold water. He didn't let himself acclimate to the temperature, though, before he started washing off all the grime of the past couple of days. He mentally erased any memories of the last job he had completed. Clint learned early into his career that pretending something never happened was the best way to deal with it. By pushing it out of his mind, Clint avoided suffering through any more mental or emotional torturethan he already did.

Clint got out of the shower and dried himself off, avoiding looking in the mirror as he did so. He glanced at the clothes lying on the floor, not wanting to put them back on. Instead, he filled up the sink with water and dumped his clothes in, swishing them around a bit. Clint grabbed the bar of soap and attempted to wash his shirt and jeans.

When the water had turned into a very pale shad of gray, Clint deemed the clothes sufficiently clean and wring them out. Then pushed the shower curtain aside and hung them up. Clint returned to the bedroom and checked the time. It was nearly one in the afternoon.

Clint turned on the news and pulled out the file on Carlos Hidalgo. As he read over the information and listened to the news anchor babble, Clint held a mental debate with himself.

Why did he agree to kill Hidalgo?

Because of he hadn't, Coulson would have continued to chase him until he was completely and utterly exausted and couldn't fight back. Then they would probably take him to a super secret lair and torture him.

Unless they worked for the government.

If they worked for the government, then he was equally screwed. Because then the army would find out that Clint wasn't actually dead then he'd probably get Court Marshalled for deserting and probably convicted of killing his team.

So face torture or a lifetime in a maximum security prison?

Pretty much.

But what if they aren't bad guys or the government?

…...

Clint decided that he wasn't getting anywhere with his personal inquisition, so he pulled his clothes down and towel dried them. Then he got out the hair dryer that the motel provided in each room and started drying his clothes.

Three quarters of an hour later, Clint checked out of his motel room. He looked perfectly calm and collected on the outside. On the inside, he was a blank slate. Every ounce of his body was focused on the job on hand.

**So there's that... I really liked this chapter actually. We get a glimpse in on Clint when he's alone. **

**I may not update until after school is out, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't review!**

**-Silver out.**


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